


The Black King

by Dancingsalome



Series: Chess and Love [2]
Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29585337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancingsalome/pseuds/Dancingsalome
Summary: In November 1989 the Berlin Wall fell. In December 1991 the Soviet Union was dissolved. And in March 1992 Beth Harmon went to Russia to look for her past.
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Series: Chess and Love [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2193135
Comments: 55
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic can be read as a standalone, but it is written as a sequel to [Taking the White Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29260803).

_Oh mon amour/Mon doux, mon tendre, mon merveilleux amour/De l'aube claire jusqu'à la fin du jour/Je t'aime encore, tu sais, je t'aime._ Jacques Brel

Beth Harmon was uncharacteristically nervous. She had been standing in her hotel room staring at the telephone for a good fifteen minutes now, willing herself to lift the receiver. Ridiculous really, that a piece of putty-colored plastic could hold such fascination. When she finally could bring herself to use it, the rotary dial felt heavy under her fingers, and they slipped; she had to re-dial twice.

One signal, then two, three, and someone lifted the receiver at the other end of the line.

“Vasily Borgov speaking.”

Her mouth was suddenly dry, and her voice sounded like a strangers. “It’s Beth.”

Silence. She had time to think he wouldn’t say anything, that he would just quietly put the receiver down, and not pick it up again, no matter how many times she rang.

“Beth.” His voice had warmed a little.

“I’m here, in St. Petersburg. I want to see you.”

There was another silence. What was he thinking? She had thought about this for months, but for Borgov this phone call must have come as a complete surprise.

“Do you know where I live?”

“No.”

He gave her an address and a few directions. “Can you come later today?”

“I can come at once.”

“Still impatient, I hear.”

“No, Vasily, I’m not. I have been waiting for twenty years.”

She could hear him breathe out slowly. “You are right. Very well, come now.”

Beth put down the receiver, and then her legs gave way under there and she sat down heavily on the bed. So close now, closer now than she had ever dared to hope. 

_Beth had spent Christmas with Jolene and her family, as she had done so many times over the years. She could never be bothered to do much celebration on her own, but Jolene did her best to compensate for the bleak Christmases they had spent together at Methuen. Jolene made Christmastime a veritable orgy in decorations, food, and family. Beth loved it, even if it exhausted her. She played chess with Jolene’s four children, who ran a betting pool on who she could beat the quickest and allowed Jolene to dictate what she should do and eat. But when the news came the Soviet Union had dissolved, she slipped away to her room. Unnoticed, she thought, but after a few minutes Jolene came in and sat down beside her on the bed._

_“Are you OK, hon?”_

_“I’m going to Soviet, well Russia now, guess, as soon as possible.”_

_“To look for him?”_

_“Yes.”_

_Jolene put an arm around her. “Do you think it would be such a good idea? It’s been a long time. You don’t even know if he wants to see you.”_

_“He must!” Beth could hear her voice rising and took a deep breath to calm herself. “He must. He owes me an explanation if nothing else.”_

_“I still think it would be better to keep it in the past. And he wasn’t exactly a spring chicken then. Have you considered he might be bald or toothless now? Or,” Jolene patted her own flat tummy, her tone indicating this would be the very worst. “Paunchy.”_

_Beth couldn’t help laughing. “I guess it will be easier to put it behind me then.”_

And now, a few months later, she was on her way to see Vasily Borgov again. Beth carefully checked herself in the mirror. She looked good; she knew what. There was nothing wrong with her figure; she was curvier than when she was twenty, but her waist was still narrow. She had chosen a dark green shirtwaist dress in soft silk, clinging and flowing at all the right places, her waist accentuated by a black leather belt. Her hair, which reached past the shoulder blades, was cut to frame her heart-shaped face with tapering lengths around it and a shaggy bang. It was still the same rich red as always, even if the color nowadays was slightly enhanced by regular visits to a very expensive hairdresser. Her face was good too, even if forty had come and gone. The lines were a little softer, and there were faint wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but artful makeup made sure you had to look very carefully to see them. And really, twelve years of sobriety and a sensitive redhead’s lifelong habit to avoid the sun was simply the best to get good skin. No, she was quite pleased with how she looked. Beth had changed, but she was sure Borgov already knew; she had been photographed in enough chess magazines over the years; she had been on the front of one just a few months ago. It was fundamentally unfair, she felt, that she did not know what Vasily looked like now.

_Thirteen short nights spread over two years and nearly seven months, that was as long as their relationship had lasted. They could only meet during chess tournaments, and only a night or two, after it had ended. Never during; they never needed to discuss that chess came first, that was a given. But when it was all over, late at night, Borgov would quietly knock on her door. So little time together to make love, talk and play chess, and Beth had still been falling in love when it ended._

_In Vienna, in 1971 the knock didn’t come. Beth was disappointed, but not worried. It was not strange if he couldn’t get away unseen every time. Then came the next tournament, and again he didn’t come. She haunted the hotel lobby the next day, carefully staging a chance meeting, but Borgov’s eyes had been as cool as his handshake when he thanked her for an interesting tournament. There was nothing in his demeanor, and Beth analyzed every movement, every word, on the plane home, which divulged they had ever been more to each other than rivals._

_Why had he ended things like this? Beth’s imagination ran rampant. Had he grown tired of her? Had she been too young, too immature, too impatient? Or had she only ever been a conquest, nothing more than a pretty body, and when he had taken what he wanted he had just thrown her away like a piece of garbage? Perhaps she had wounded his pride one time too many? The more times they had played against each other, the more often she won. He had always seemed proud of her, but in the end, it may have got to him. Perhaps she had become too much for his dignity; too much of a threat to be anything else than a rival. Or was there something altogether scarier behind his rejection? Had he been found out and forbidden to see her again? Fueled by every agent movie she had ever seen, Beth conjured up images of grim-faced KGB-men, dark cells, and violence. Had he been threatened? Hurt? They were just chess players, surely on the big political scale, they weren’t that important. But if he had been told to stay away from her, could he really protest?_

_Her thoughts went round and round, some days thinking one thing, the next entertaining an alternative theory. It hurt to think he had fallen out of love with her, may never have loved her at all, but it hurt more to think he may have gotten into trouble because of her. She was desperately unhappy, and in the end, she told Jolene everything. Her friend, forever practical, thought she had just been dumped._

_“And not in a nice way either.”_

_“You don’t know him,” Beth protested._

_“True. But do you? Really?”_

_Beth felt she did. With Vasily, she had felt loved, cared for; important. She just couldn’t believe it had been meaningless to him when it had meant so much to her. But she couldn’t be certain, and she couldn’t stop thinking about it. It even affected her chess playing. She had not won the World Championship in 1970, which was annoying, but not a complete surprise. But that she didn’t win it in 1972 was unexpected, and she took it hard._

_A year later, in Moscow, Beth got a partial explanation. She had been drinking tea in the hotel lounge, watching Borgov’s unresponsive back leaving the room as Luchenko sat down beside her._

_“I have been asked to give you something.”_

_He provided a chess piece from a pocket and put it in her hand. Beth looked down at it and her eyes filled with tears when she saw it was a black king, and she knew who it was from. Luchenko patted her arm in sympathy._

_“You are not the only one who suffers. But will you let an old man give you a piece of advice?”_

_Beth smiled at him. “Of course.”_

_“Let it go now. You are young, and you have your whole life ahead. Don’t dwell on what you must have known had no future.”_

_“But he didn’t even say goodbye.”_

_“He has now.”_

_Alone in her room, Beth studied the black king. It was nothing like the one Borgov had given her when she won the Moscow Invitational. That had been a generic wood piece; they had played all the chess games with the same kind of pieces. What made it memorable for her was what it represented. She kept it with the mementos of her other victories, proudly displayed at the best spot. This black king was very different. It was carved in ebony, which made it heavy compared to its size. It was beautiful, and Beth imagined the white pieces would be made from ivory. It was old too, something which an antique dealer later confirmed, telling her it was from the 18th century, and of Dutch origin. A complete set would also be valuable. Beth supposed she probably should keep it safe on a shelf, but she found she felt at a loss if she didn’t carry it with her. It stood by her bedside table at night, and by day she carried it in her pocket or handbag._

_In 1974, Beth finally won the World Championship. She played black against Borgov, and it was a tough game. But she not only wanted to win; she needed to win, and she did. When she shook Borgov’s hand after, he bowed slightly._

_“Well played, Miss Harmon.”_

_It was the last time Beth saw him. Soon after it was announced, Vasily Borgov was retiring. With him completely out of reach, Beth decided she should follow Luchenko’s advice and go on with her life. In retrospect, she often wondered how she could not have realized she did so in the most disastrous way possible, but it had seemed the easiest at the moment. Benny Watts was attractive, they liked each other; he loved chess, and then there was the bonus of New York. They spent a year quarreling and making up, while her drinking intensified at the same rate as his gaming. In the end, it took them longer and longer to reconcile and eventually they parted with relief, and went back to being friends. They never really got out of the habit of disagreeing; Beth couldn’t remember a phone conversation that hadn’t ended with one of them slamming down the receiver in anger._

_The rest of the 70s went by in a bit of a blur. Beth stayed away from the pills, but not the booze. She found it easier and easier to fall back on alcohol and refused to listen to anyone who tried to tell her she needed to check it. In 1980 she lost the World Championship, and she realized that if she didn’t pull herself together now, it may never happen. She was only thirty-two and should be in her prime, not been talked about as a has been. And she succeeded. She had Jolene and Townes to support her; she found a good psychiatrist, and when the urge to drink felt overwhelming, Beth found it helped to clutch a small black chess piece in her hand._

_Beth won back her title in 1982, met Marc, a French sports journalist at the award ceremony, fell in love and moved to Paris, and got married. Four of the five years they spent together were among the best of her life. She rarely thought of Vasily Borgov anymore, and the black king had joined the other king on her trophy shelf. On the occasions she was reminded of him, it was easier to ignore how her heart still ached at the thought of him. And, to be honest, she had been so young; it would probably not have worked out even if they could have had a normal relationship. Perhaps it wouldn’t even have lasted as long as it did. She told herself Vasily Borgov was a closed chapter in her life, and as long as she and Marc were happy, it wasn’t difficult to believe that._

_During 1987 her marriage fell apart. Beth didn’t understand what was wrong until Marc, during one of their arguments, cried out that she always put chess first._

_“Of course I do”. Beth said because it was the truth. Belatedly, when she saw Marc’s face, she realized she had hurt him. But what could she do? Nothing mattered more to her than chess, and she couldn’t change that. Suddenly she thought of what Borgov had told her, the first time they had actually talked with each other._

“And in the end, chess is the only thing that will prevail. The love before any other loves. And believe me, even if you say nothing, those you love will know they can never be first, and in the end, they will resent you for it.”

_So Beth put her hand on Marc’s arm and said she was sorry, and she was, but that it would probably be better if she moved out._

_She stayed in Paris after the divorce. Life, when everything settled, was good. She was still one of the best chess players in the world. A long time ago she and Alma had followed how the interest of her bank account grew; Beth had learned since then and invested her money well, and it allowed her a pleasant lifestyle where her main indulgence was her wardrobe and good food. She had her friends, and, on occasion, lovers. And, slowly, she realized she was thinking of Borgov more than she had done in many years. She might have told herself he didn’t matter anymore, but she knew she had only lied to herself._

_On a tournament in 1988, she asked Girev about him. Wasn’t it only natural to inquire after a formal rival? She didn’t think anyone would care; it had been years, after all._

_“So, what does Borgov do nowadays?”_

_“Gives chess lessons. Writes about chess. If you can get him to talk, he talks about chess.” Girev laughed. “Basically, what I will do in twenty years’ time.”_

_Beth wanted to ask more. Was he happy? Did he live alone? Did he ever speak about her? But those questions would have sounded too strange, so she didn’t mention Borgov again. From time to time she read about him in chess magazines, but it was always articles about his past glories, not on his current life. When the Berlin wall fell, and the Cold War started to thaw, Beth occasionally toyed with the idea of trying to find him. But she hesitated; if he had been forbidden to continue their relationship, she didn’t want to risk his safety, even if it seemed unlikely after all this time._

But now the Cold War was over, the Soviet Union was no more, and Beth was in Russia, and soon she would meet Vasily Borgov again. She felt like the last half of her life had been folded away; her nerves as raw as if it was days since Luchenko had given her the black king. It felt like it was just days after, not years. It was too late to back off now, and after a last glance in the mirror, Beth put on a coat, grabbed her purse, and left.

Borgov lived on a street that must have been very elegant in the last breaths of the Russian Empire. Large houses with large windows; the kind with rooms with polished floors and high ceilings. Now it was a trifle shabby, but on the whole, well kept. There was no elevator; Beth walked up a marble staircase to the second floor and stopped at the right door. There she stopped, unable to move. She was nervous; almost scared of what was awaiting her on the other side. He was over sixty now; all of Jolene’s predictions could have come true. But wouldn’t that be good? It had been over between them for twenty years, and the only reason she hadn’t been able to let it go was because there had been no proper closure. Beth would get that now; she would see him, and she would know there were only ashes left of what they had once had. They would talk a little, they would say their goodbyes, she would shake his hand and leave. Free from him at last, free to finally forget about him.

Beth took a deep breath and knocked on the door.


	2. Chapter 2

The door opened, Beth met the eyes of the man who stood on the other side, and she had to fight a sudden sense of vertigo.

“He hasn’t changed at all,” she thought in surprise. Somehow Jolene’s speculations had turned into truths in Beth’s mind, and she had become certain would meet an old man she wouldn’t recognize. Now she found Borgov looked so much like she remembered him, it felt like she had gone back in time. They stared at each other, none of them saying anything. It was only for a second or two, but it felt like an eternity, then he opened the door wider, so she could step inside.

“Welcome,” he said, but to Beth’s relief, he didn’t offer his hand in greeting. She wasn’t sure how she would react if she touched him, her nervosity had reached a new high as an avalanche of thoughts and emotions crashed through her mind. The initial shock of seeing him ebbed away slightly, and now she could see he had aged, after all, but changed far less than she had. His dark hair was still thick but had turned iron grey, the lines in his face had deepened and the skin had grown softer around the chin. His eyes were the same; cool blue, which only showed emotions if he chose to. Borgov had not looked particularly youthful at forty; he could as well have been five, or even ten years older. Sometime during their years apart, this had changed; had she now known his age she would have said he was a man in his 50s.

He was dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, casually open at the throat, and the cuffs rolled up. Beth couldn’t resist glancing at his waistline, which was decidedly paunch-free, and she couldn’t help thinking she was going to read Jolene the riot act for putting that particular mage in her mind. She realized her eyes were lingering, taking in the flat stomach and broad shoulders, and she wrenched her eyes away. Her face felt hot, and she fumbled with the buttons of her coat. There was no reason for her to be surprised that he was still in good shape; everyone knew that when Borgov didn’t play chess, he exercised. Back then it had been unusual, especially for a man of a more intellectual bent, so unusual people had talked about it. Nowadays everyone went to the gym, or jogged, so why would Borgov have given up something he had always done?

Her inside felt oddly liquid, and heat pooled low in her belly. For all her planning Beth had not taken into account she would still find Borgov attractive. She had wanted to look good so he could see what he had let go of; she had not expected to be reminded of what she had lost. She had always been more attracted by mind over physical appearances. It had been like that with Borgov too, but she remembered the breathless excitement she had felt the first time she saw him without clothes. Unbidden memories of touching him rose in Beth’s mind; how he had moved inside her; her hands on his back, feeling the muscles move under the skin. Trailing kisses down his stomach, deliberately avoiding going lower, until his hand in her hair had pulled her mouth to where he wanted it.

“Damn,” Beth thought. “Damn, damn, damn.”

Here she was coming undone, not even five minutes after seeing him again. The buttons were finally obeying, and she shrugged off her coat, taking a deep breath to try to settle her nerves a little. When she looked up she found Borgov staring at her, but he quickly looked away.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” his voice was abrupt.

“Yes please,” she said, but he had already turned away and disappeared into the apartment before she had finished the sentence. It was rude, which was completely out of character for him, and Beth thought he must feel as unsettled as she did, and in need of some time alone to collect himself. She felt relieved, she could use a minute or two herself to calm down too.

After hanging up her coat she walked after him into a living room, looking around with interest. The only example of Borgov’s taste she had ever seen were the garish ties he favored. He had once told her it was his private rebellion. Not breaking any rules, but a little poke at the fine line to what was accepted. His home was all his, and she was intensely curious about how he chose to live.

The room had the large windows and high ceiling she expected but was smaller, and the proportions strange; it was too narrow for its depth. She realized why when she saw the intricate stucco work at the ceiling. Two corners were elaborately finished with ornamental scrolls rosettes, but at the opposite corners, the decorations were just abruptly cut off by the wall. At some point, the original large apartments have been made into smaller ones. Borgov’s apartment was small, she could see a kitchen through an open door and hear Borgov move inside, and then there was only one other door, closed to his bedroom, she supposed.

Beth walked slowly around the room. Bookshelves lined the wall, and the floor was almost covered by kilim carpet in red, black, and ochre. Two armchairs stood at an angle to each other by the windows, a small table between them, and in the middle of the room; a table with a chessboard set up. There was no television set, but a radio and a gramophone. She peered at the sleeve of a record laying on top of it; a cello suite by Bach. A German record, she saw, probably something he had purchased on a tournament. Most of the bookshelves were filled with books, the majority of them about chess in Russian, and English, and another language she didn't know. Polish perhaps. She hadn’t known he spoke more languages. And there were the books she had written, their spines broken and worn: they had been read and re-read. Several chess trophies, but not nearly as many as he had won over the years, so presumably he only displayed those which had a special meaning for him. Several boxes of chess sets. A shelf was full of photos. None of Borgov himself, but there were a few of a couple in outdated fashions, probably his parents, and several of his son. He grew up before Beth’s eyes; in the last ones, a smiling woman joined him, and then two small children. And then her heart stopped for a moment when she saw a photo of herself. Beth had never seen this particular photo of herself before, but she knew when it had been taken; in the evening she had won the Moscow Invitational. Her pictures had been taken over and over then, and Borgov must have obtained it from one of the photographers.

Nothing in the room was new, but everything was neat and clean and the dark wood of the furniture polished. Beth could tell it was a room that was kept in order at all times, she was sure Borgov had not had to frantically clean because she was coming. It was a room as far from her taste as she could imagine, but it still gave her the same feeling as her own large and airy apartment in Paris, where the windows opened out to a terrace, and you could see the rooftops of half of the city. It was completely different from Borgov's home, decorated in modern Scandinavian design, and light colors, but the atmosphere still felt the same. It was easy to imagine Borgov playing chess, reading, and listening to music here, alone most of the time, but by choice, not of loneliness, just like she did.

When Borgov reemerged carrying a tray of tea utensils, the butterflies in Beth’s stomach were only weakly fluttering. He placed it at the small table by the window and motioned for her to sit down. He hadn’t asked her how she wanted her tea, but he prepared her just the way she liked, and she felt touched he remembered such a trivial detail. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Borgov spoke.

“I’ve often wondered what I would say to you if I ever saw you again, and if I could make you understand what happened.”


	3. Chapter 3

Borgov said nothing else for a few minutes, and Beth didn’t try to hurry him. Had she waited this long for an explanation, she could let him take the time he needed. She had not, however, expected what he said next.

“Have you heard of the Siege of Leningrad during the war?”

Beth frowned. “Yes. But I don’t see-”

“Bear with me, please.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his jaw. “It was hell for over two years. After only a month, most of the food was gone. The water pipelines were bombed, so even clean water was scarce. During the winter there was no fuel; we burned everything that could burn to keep warm. My first chess set burned. It didn’t matter; you can play chess in your mind, or with pebbles and stones. Everyone starved, everyone froze. Death was everywhere; there was not a family that didn’t suffer losses. Even so, the people of Leningrad endured, and the city didn’t fall.”

As he spoke, Beth’s mind conjured up an image of a teenage Borgov, his face hollow from hunger, but with eyes still determined to survive. Losing is not an option, indeed. The war had always been an abstraction for her, something which happened before she was born. This was the first time she became consciously aware that for Borgov it hadn’t just happened during his lifetime, but something he had been in the middle of. She wondered who he had lost, and it made her realize how little she knew about his life. She wanted to apologize, though she didn’t know what she should apologize for. Being too young to remember, perhaps?

“Some left Leningrad after the siege was lifted. Too many terrible memories, too much loss, but I stayed. It’s my home, and I couldn’t leave it. I never considered defecting, because I couldn’t stand the thought of never returning. Chess I carry with me wherever I go, but to come home is my anchor. I cannot be lost because I’ll always have it.”

Borgov looked at Beth. “Do you understand me?”

Beth thought of the things she had which grounded and supported her. Jolene and her family, which had become her family too. Her little house in Kentucky which she hadn’t lived in for years, but it was still there, still hers if she ever wanted to again. The graves of Alma and Mr. Shaibel which she always visited when she was back home. Though they were long gone, those visits always brought back everything they had given her.

“Yes,” she said. “I do. But why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I hope it will make it clearer for you why I acted as I did.”

“I think I figured out some of what happened. You were found out.”

“Yes.”

“And they forbid you to see me again.”

“Eventually, yes. At first, I was questioned and suspected of wanting to defect. It was- unpleasant.”

Beth felt a chill going down her spine. ”Did they hurt you?”

Borgov gave her a quick glance, then he smiled.

“No, not at all. But in order to convince them I wasn’t planning to leave for your sake, I had to make them believe you meant nothing to me. I had to talk about you in a manner no woman should be spoken of. And I had to laugh at their lewd jokes and comments about your character and person. It was demeaning and ugly and deeply unpleasant for my pride and sense of propriety, nothing else.”

But Beth saw how he squared his shoulders as if his body remembered more than he was willing to tell her, and she looked away so he wouldn’t see what she had noticed.

“Did they believe you?”

“In the end. At least they acted as they did. The men questioning me were middle-aged men themselves and they could readily believe I had only slept with you because you were young and beautiful.” 

Borgov smiled, but it was more a grimace than anything else. “They only saw the surface and their own prejudices. They wanted to see you as a decadent American with a depraved lifestyle, so that was what they saw. And me for a fool, so blinded by lust I had failed to see the consequences. Then I was asked to turn you instead. They were not happy with me when I refused.”

She stared at him in surprise. “Why did you do that?”

“Would you have come?”

“I think so.”

“And that’s why I didn’t ask.”

“I don’t understand.”

Borgov leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked at her intently. “I know it sounds like I didn’t want you with me. Believe me, for my sake, for my selfish pleasure, I wanted to ask you. But though this is my country, and I love it, I’m not blind to its faults. The rules and regulations can chafe, even when you have lived with them your whole life. For someone born to another kind of life, it can be a straitjacket. You were never one to obey without questions. And had you come here, you would have been watched, and you would never have been trusted.”

“And you think I couldn’t have learned to adapt to that? I don’t think I would have cared, as long as I had what was important.”

He smiled. “Chess and love?”

Beth nodded mutely. 

Borgov sighed. “Yes, I think you could have learned to live here; you are resilient and resourceful, not to mention stubborn. But you would have come, thinking they would treasure your talents, because you are a chess player without comparison, and you know that.”

“What do you mean? That I would have been forbidden to play chess?”

“Oh no; but you wouldn’t have been allowed to choose which tournaments. You wouldn’t have been trusted to travel abroad, and you would definitely not have been allowed to play for the World Championship. An American woman beating a Russian man- they desperately wanted to prevent that. Foremost, you were a threat that needed to be neutralized. And after, then your value here would not have been as a chess player, but as a trophy; a price stolen from the West. I was watched; any contact between us would have been orchestrated and monitored, and I wouldn’t have been allowed to tell you the whole truth. How long would it have taken you to resent me for trapping you? And it would have been a trap; there would have been no way back for you. And Beth, you know better than I, to what you would have turned, had all the other exits been closed for you.”

Beth closed her eyes. She had felt upset when Borgov talked, furious even. For a moment she had struggled to not scream at him and storm out of the apartment. But she had waited too long and traveled too far, to allow her first impassioned feelings to dictate her actions. Now she tried to look at the facts, pushing her feelings away. Would she have defected if he had asked her? Yes, she thought so. Beth, barely twenty-three and heads over heels in love, would have seen the romance in it, the big gesture in giving up everything to be with him. What it would actually mean to move to another country with another language and culture was only something abstract for her then. Now she knew, and though she loved living in France, it hadn’t always been altogether easy, and she knew one reason it had worked out was that she knew she could always pack her bags and go back home. 

And going to the Soviet on false premises. Well, she wouldn’t have had any chance at all. Her sobriety had been hard-won and was still a struggle, and she knew she would never have succeeded had she not had her ambition to be the best of the best, and the love and support of her friends. She could see why Borgov had felt the need to talk of what his city meant for him, and the importance of something to fall back on. Cut off from everything that anchored her, alone in a new country, alcohol would have been her only solution, and there would have been nothing left to save her.

And she understood why Borgov had declined to make her defect. Suddenly a new thought struck her, and she opened her eyes.

“You didn’t really choose to retire, did you?”

“No, they forced it upon me. It would have been bad politics to go after the World Champion. However, misbehaving chess players who refuse to cooperate, and lose their title as a result, that was another matter.”

Beth could hear the anger in his voice. Vasily Borgov had been undefeated but for her; he had still been an outstanding chess player. Still one of the very best in the world, and still the best one in the Soviet Union. She wondered if those who had punished him like that had realized how cruel it was.

“I hope you didn’t have more trouble because of me.”

Borgov smiled a genuine smile this time. “No. Life has been rather uneventful, but not bad.”

“I’m glad.”

“And are you satisfied with my explanation?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Beth didn’t know what to say more than that. She felt strangely empty; she had never really thought she would come this far, that she would actually get an explanation of what had happened. What was she supposed to do now? What did Borgov want? That she should leave, or stay? She took a sip of her cooling tea, to give herself a little time. But before she could decide, Borgov made it for her.

He stood up and gave her his hand. “Let’s play chess.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. I must have been inspired because I have never finished a fic this quick. But it was very interesting to write, and I'm absolutely floored by how kindly it has been received. I didn't expect it to garner much interest. Thank you! I hope you all enjoy this chapter too.

Beth nodded, took Borgov’s hand, and stood up. Yes, of course, they were going to play chess. How could they meet again and not play? She had been so focused on finally getting her explanation to think about it, but now she knew she couldn’t leave before a game.

Her hands were cold, she hadn’t realized that until Borgov’s warm hand closed over her’s. The heat seemed to travel through her entire body, and she wanted to step into his arms and pull his arms around her, pressing her body against his and letting his warmth engulf her. But she only let him lead her to the table with the chess game and allowed him to seat her at the white side. 

But to her surprise, he didn’t sit down himself. Instead, he regarded the chess pieces solemnly. Then he gave her a quick glance and put them away in their box. He put the box on a shelf and selected another one, and when he unpacked it, Beth’s heart started to beat harder. She knew those chess pieces, though she had never seen the complete set before. The style and execution were still unmistakable, and yes, the white pieces were carved in ivory. And when they were all set up, there was still one piece missing, the black king. Beth smiled and reached into her pocket, slowly putting the ebony king in its rightful place. When she looked up, Borgov’s eyes were smiling at her, and she could feel her face heat up.

Playing calmed her. She could focus on the chessboard where everything had its place, every chess piece its preordained moves, but the choreography was always new; an infinite number of combinations and possibilities. It made every game a surprise, but it was also familiar; a safe harbor for her emotions. After everything she had learned today, it was a relief to let them rest a little, turning all her attention to the game. And playing against Borgov again after all these years was also familiar, but also thrilling. 

Time passed. There was no reason to rush, and they both took their time considering their movies. None of them spoke; there was no need for it. At one point Borgov turned on a few lamps; Beth had noticed the room was darkening until he did. A little later he went into the kitchen and returned with a plate of pierogi they silently ate while they played. It was a peaceful game, domestic. The kind of game Beth once had envisioned playing with Borgov in her garden in Kentucky. Then it had been an impossible daydream, but now she thought of her terrace in Paris, where large pots of roses soon would start flowering. Something inside her stirred like a bauble filled with golden promises. It suddenly didn’t seem impossible any longer the two of them could sit there one day.

Eventually, she realized the game didn’t go anywhere. They both moved the same piece back and forth, no one being able to find an opening. She looked up and met Borgov’s gaze, and he gave her his little half-smile, and she knew he had noticed the same.

“Draw?”

“Yes, Miss Harmon, a draw.”

Beth leaned on her elbows and contemplated the remaining chess pieces, thinking of what to say next.

“Do you regret giving up your career for me?”

“No. It would have been worse to see you stunted. And what is the point of being on top if you know you only stay there because your competition was unfairly eliminated?”

Beth nodded, she understood that. “None, of course.”

“I still love you, you know.”

Her heart seemed to expand in her chest at his words, but she didn’t dare to look at him. Beth was afraid it would render her speechless if she did, and she was afraid she would say the wrong words. It seemed so fragile, what she wanted him to know, so easy to not get it right. Instead, she reached out her hand towards him, and he took it. It felt easier when she could look at their fingers entwined, laying on the chessboard between them.

“I never stopped loving you. I thought I had- I wanted to, anyway. But those people we still love have been gone for twenty years. I’m not that Beth anymore, for good and for bad. I’ve changed, and so have you. How can we know we even like each other now?”

“I don’t think we need to doubt that,” Borgov said mildly. “But you are right, our lives haven’t stood still just because we haven’t been together.”

“I’ve been married.”

“I know.”

“And had lovers.”

“I haven’t been without company either.”

“But not now?”

“No, not for some time.” He gripped her hand a little tighter. “What do you want, Beth?”

“I want a beginning. A real beginning. The world is changing and there’s no need to hide anymore; we can keep in contact. Write letters; visit each other. I can stay in St. Petersburg for a while. I have never been here before, and perhaps you could show me your city? I would like that a lot. And I want to do all the other things we never could do before. But I don’t want to be in any hurry to get somewhere. I don’t need promises or plans set in stone. I just want a beginning and see what happens next.”

She dared to look at him then, and she could see his answer in his eyes before he spoke.

“Yes, I want that too.”

He stood up, pulling her up with him and into his arms. Beth nestled close, put her cheek against his chest, inhaled his scent, and relished in the feeling of his powerful arms around her. She felt warm and safe, and giddily happy. If she only could stay, but she had already said she didn’t want things to happen too fast.

“It’s late. I should go.”

She tried to take a step back, but Vasily kept his hand around her waist and instead pulled her closer, burrowing his face in her hair.

“Do you have to? Would it be too much of a rush to ask you to stay the night?”

Beth tilted her head back and smiled at him. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“If you can persuade me.”

“Is that so?”

Vasily vowed his hand in her hair and tilted her chin so he could kiss her. Beth wound her arms around his neck and stood on her toes, kissing him back as eagerly as he kissed her. They were both breathless when they pulled apart.

“Enough persuasion?”

“Not quite. A kiss is just a kiss, after all.”

The hand in her hair tightened, and he shook her head slightly.”

“You are still a minx, my love.”

Suddenly Vasily swung her around, so her back was against his chest, and his hand, broad and warm, pressed against Beth’s throat. Not choking, but with enough force to keep her immobilized against his body. His other hand started a slow dance over her collarbones, stroking the delicate skin there, and then dipping a little lower, unbuttoning the first button of her dress. Then another one, and another.

Beth could barely breathe when his fingertips brushed the top of her breasts, but it was only for a second, then he continued with the buttons. She fumbled over her belt buckle, unfastened it, and let the belt fall to the floor, so he could continue with her dress. He caressed her stomach, dragging his fingers up between her breasts, but not touching them. Then another button, and finally, the last one, and the dress fell apart down the middle. Vasily unhurriedly ran his fingers along the edge of her black lace bra, but he didn’t go further. Beth who had decided to not urge him on couldn’t resist a small frustrated whimper when he once again bypassed breasts to skim over her waist and hips instead.

He murmured in her ear. ” I thought you said you weren’t impatient anymore.”

“I’m not- it’s you who is infuriatingly slow.”

“He chuckled. “Just the way you like it.”

In answer, Beth pressed herself harder against him, feeling to her satisfaction that he was as aroused as she was.

“So, have I persuaded you yet?”

“Will you touch me properly if I say yes?”

“Maybe.”

Vasily released her, easing her dress down her arms so she could slip out of it. Beth quickly removed her panties and pantyhose and turned around only clad in her bra. The naked hunger in his eyes felt like it scorched her.

“You look very indecent like that.”

“Just the way you like it then.”

He reached for her, but she danced away and poked out the tip of her tongue at him. Vasily Borgov grinned, yes grinned, and in two quick steps caught her again. Beth squirmed a little, so she could start unfastening his shirt, while he opened her bra clasp.

“All right, I stay. But only because it’s too cold to go outside now that you have stolen my clothes.”

She kissed his chest, letting her hands roam his body. His body had softened a little with age, but it was still muscular. Vasily took her arm and steered her to the bedroom. It was not large, the bed occupied most of the floor-space, but it was a neat aunty rest of his home, the bed made up with clean white sheets that smelled faintly of lavender when Beth sat down on it. Vasily divested himself of the last of his clothes, and she pulled him down to her.

It seemed her body remembered his perfectly, molding itself to fit against him. His hands touched her in all the right places, in exactly the right way; he remembered too. Vasily had always excited her, coaxing her arousal to heights no one else could ever do. That hadn’t changed, and Beth came laughing and crying at the same time. When he entered her, she wrapped both her arms and legs around him, wanting him as close as possible.

Afterward, Beth lay in his arms, lazily moving her fingers in circles over his chest. “I used to hate falling asleep with you because I knew you would always be gone when I woke up the next day.”

“But not tomorrow.”

“Never again when we are together. And tomorrow will be the first time we wake up together.”

Vasily kissed her lightly on her forehead. “The first of many firsts.”

Beth smiled at him, snuggled closer, and closed her eyes. Sleep couldn’t come fast enough, and tomorrow was full of promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:** The quote in the beginning from this fic is from a song called _La chanson des vieux amants_. Sometimes I get a song stuck in my head when I write, and this song got really stuck, especially the second verse and the refrain. For those who don’t speak French, the title translates to _The Old Lovers Song_
> 
> _I, I know all your spells/You know all my charms/You kept me from trap to trap/I lost you from time to time/Of course, you took a few lovers/Time had to be spent/The body just has to exult/In the end, in the end/It took us much talent/To be old without being adults_
> 
> _But my love/My sweet, my tender, my wonderful love/From the clear dawn until the end of the day/I love you still, you know, I love you_
> 
> The melody is heartbreakingly beautiful, and you can find the song [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dU-OD5_Dxrs) Jaques Brel was at his height of popularity in 1967, so Beth could very well have heard his music when she was in Paris.


End file.
